


every breath you take

by falsettodrop, jlhd, sinkingsidewalks



Category: Figure Skating RPF, Olympics RPF
Genre: Additional Warnings in Author’s Note, F/M, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-26 17:58:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16686388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/falsettodrop/pseuds/falsettodrop, https://archiveofourown.org/users/jlhd/pseuds/jlhd, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinkingsidewalks/pseuds/sinkingsidewalks
Summary: She loves him back. Or at least he thinks she does.Finally, his plan is in motion, and it’s time.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We don’t know what this is either.

**PART I**

 

She is your dream girl.

You’ve never met anyone remotely like her. She’s beyond all expectations—somehow exactly what you expect her to be, but still managing to surprise you every time. The sound of her laugh, the colour of her eyes, the way her hair moves in tandem with the wind. Her ethereal beauty mesmerizes you whenever you catch sight of her. Sometimes, you can’t even believe she’s real. It’s a privilege to be in her vicinity, always.

This week, you see her on a Tuesday. It’s completely unplanned, and it happens by accident in a coffee shop—because don’t all moments happen there these days? She’s not with that guy today, the one she’s usually around these days. You’re thankful for it. You can tell she’s getting closer and closer to him, despite her still spending lots of time with you, and you hate how it makes you feel. It almost feels as if your relationship is slipping through your fingers, and you can’t get a proper handle on it.

You come to the realization, as you’re watching her from afar, that maybe, finally, it’s time for you to tell her how you feel. It’s been there for so long, the reminder in the back of your mind every time you look at her, and it feels as if you’re crawling out of your skin with this need to be with her. Maybe, after all this time, you might actually get the chance to be.

All you can do is hope she feels the same way. And, sometimes, you think that she does. It’s in the way she smiles at you, brightening her entire face. Or how when you approach her, the length of her spine straightens, as if she is preparing herself for your presence, wholly focused on you and you alone. There’s the sure signs in her lilting laughter when you crack a joke, like the sound is just for you. When your fingers brush accidentally, you are more than positive that she too can feel the tingling sensation. It’s electric, the chemistry you two share. Everyone sees it.

But, she’s not just any girl. You can’t simply ask her out; you need a plan, a gesture, to show her how much you truly care.

Today, you watch as she orders a latte and sits at her favourite corner table with an open book in her lap. She’s entranced in what she’s reading: _Sense and Sensibility_ , by Jane Austen. She can be such a romantic sometimes; it’s a quality of hers you’ve become fond of over time. You’re a ball of energy and don’t want to bother her, though. So you don’t say anything, grabbing her order from the counter and placing it by her, her fingers lingering on your skin as she takes it from you. You’re content to simply watch her, to appreciate her beauty and the smell lingering in her pathway of coffee grounds mixed with her strawberry scented shampoo. You’ve always loved the way she smells.

She gets up to use the bathroom, and that’s when you know your opportunity has presented itself. You’ve had this gesture planned for quite some time, a culmination of the love you’ve shared with each other. So you spring into action. You lean over the table for her seat, quickly but surely, searching through the purse she’s left on the table, finding what you need—her house key.

You can’t wait. It’s all mapped out perfectly in your head. And if things go according to plan, you can’t imagine her not saying yes.

 

*

 

In the weeks leading up to the big day, you decide that you shouldn’t spring it on her out of nowhere. No, you need to carefully show her that you’re actually serious about this, that you’re completely devoted to her and there couldn’t possibly be anyone else. The only one out there for her is you.

You wait outside, carefully watching as she leaves, and then enter her house with the key you borrowed. In the following week, you decide it would be sweet to leave her little notes where she can find them. You get her a beautiful bouquet that you’re sure she’ll adore, and place it on her dining room table. You get her her favourite chocolate; the one she constantly rebuys at her local Shoppers Drug Mart. You can’t wait to see the smile on her face when she sees them. You don’t want her to suspect what you’re planning, though—this is all just cushioning, it’s the groundwork for your big confession. They aren’t important in the long run, just a couple of little things that might make her feel nice, and you can tell her that you did them _after_ she (hopefully) reciprocates your feelings.

(In a moment of pure genius, you take her most prized possession—a photograph that is framed in her hallway—and decide to replace the picture inside of it with something even better. You know _just_ what would be the perfect replacement. You can’t wait to bring it on the night of your confession to show her; you know she’ll love it.)

In the weeks leading up to the day, you can tell she’s slightly suspicious from the way she’s acting, and the way she’s paying closer attention to her surroundings. But you’re positive she doesn’t have a single clue about what is to come, and for that reason, you can’t _wait_.

 

*

 

Tonight is the night. You’ve been nervous all day, filled with energy and excitement, as you’ve gone about readying your plans. But now it’s all set.

You park two blocks down from her house, the quick walk in the cool night air settles your nerves. There’s no reason to worry, you tell yourself, as you dip between the glowing arcs of the streetlights. All of your hints and nudges have played out perfectly. You saw how she smiled at the flowers you’d left for her as she passed them every the morning, how she’d carefully pruned out the dying ones as they’d wilted in an effort to make the bouquet last longer. She must know, deep in her heart, how you feel. It’s the same as how you know the depth of her own feelings even though she’s never spoken them aloud.

It will work out perfectly. You’re in a pressed suit, one that is grey and brings out the brown in your eyes, knowing that she’s the kind of girl who will appreciate that kind of effort. You’ve got a fresh bouquet for her in one hand and a bag in the other carrying chocolate, rose petals, and a stuffed bear. The photo is in there too, the one you so carefully crafted for her—the happiest you both have ever been, thus far. You set it on top to ensure it wouldn’t be damaged in the car ride. It’s going to look perfect in her hallway; you can’t wait to see her face when she sees it.

You hurry past the last few houses down the block to hers. The porch lights are off, the blinds drawn tight over front bay windows, spilling no light from within. Even in the shadows you still manage to skip over the one joint in the wooden deck that creaks. She’s always been a light sleeper and you don’t want her waking up too soon.

Balancing the bouquet on your elbow, you root through your pockets for her house key. The metal tines slip through the lock with hardly any resistance and you hold your breath as you turn the deadbolt open. You repocket the key with a sweaty hand, shake the tension out of your fingertips, and open the door.


	2. Chapter 2

**PART II**

 

It starts on a Wednesday afternoon with the appearance of a chocolate bar on her kitchen counter that she most definitely does not remember buying. The flavour is her favourite, _Lindt_ dark chocolate. The packaging is crisp and untouched, left there waiting for her. She looks around her house as if it will give her the answers she wants. It doesn’t. In the long run, she brushes it off. Maybe she picked it up a while ago from the grocery store and left it sitting on the counter while organizing her kitchen last night after dinner. It isn’t as if someone else could have left it there.

But then, as the weeks move along, she continues noticing more and more little things. If it were one off occurrences, she wouldn’t pay much attention to them. But it’s the fact that there are multiple additions to her house that catches her notice. On a Thursday morning she finds a sticky note on her fridge that reads _I hope you have the most amazing day._ On a Saturday evening, after coming in from a night out, there is a beautiful bouquet in the middle of her dining room table. Tuesday, after coming back from a work out at the local gym, another sticky note, this time on the corkboard in her room. _Dream big, my love. All of your goals will be achieved in due time._

And it isn’t just additions to her home, either. On Sunday night before she heads off for bed, she goes looking for the black _Moir’s Skate Shop_ sweater that usually calls the top shelf of her closet home. It’s been a long day and all she wants is to cuddle up with the fabric and crawl under her duvet. But it isn’t there. She looks everywhere, tears apart the shelf and sifts through the hangers. It isn’t in her laundry basket, she makes sure of it by dumping out its contents to the floor. Nor is it in her laundry room. In the end, she huffs and pulls a sweater from her Canton days off the shelf and fits it over her head. It isn’t the same, though.

In reality, it takes her longer to put together the puzzle pieces than it should. The little notes. The chocolate. The flowers. Scott’s hoodie missing. Other than her mom and her sister, he is the only person who could possibly have a copy of the key to her house. She doesn’t exactly remember giving it to him, but she knows it wouldn’t be unlike her to have done so. She rolls her eyes and groans the second she figures it all out. Then, she sends Scott a text.

_Rhino Lounge, the usual. Today. 10am._

It takes a total of three minutes for his reply to come.

_Sure, sounds good! See you then, T._

She huffs at his cheerful reply, and throws her phone on the couch before heading off to shower.

 

*

 

Scott is sitting at their favourite table once she enters the coffee shop. She greets the young girl behind the cash register with a smile—everyone there knows exactly who she is—and storms off to the table. He isn’t paying attention; he’s fiddling with his phone instead of looking up, so he jumps when she flops into the booth.

“Hey, T,” he greets with a grin. She tries to keep her face stern, not allowing herself to get affected by his charms. “What’s with the face?”

Her purse is placed delicately in the booth beside her before she shrugs her jacket off and folds her hands on the table in front of them. “Was it your intention to freak the hell out of me, or was that just a side effect?”

He furrows his eyebrows. “What are you talking about?”

“Breaking into my house, you idiot!” She picks up a random miscellaneous straw wrapper on the table and throws it at his head. It lands on his right cheekbone before bounding back to the table.

“Hey!” he says childishly, picking the wrapper up and throwing it back at her. He completely misses and she watches it fly past her right shoulder. “I haven’t been breaking into your house.”

Tessa rolls her eyes. “Yeah, okay, sure. How did that bouquet end up in dining room two weekends ago, then? Magic?”

Scott shrugs. He must be practising his poker face in his spare time. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Tess.”

She squints at him, but his face remains impassive. “If you wanted your sweatshirt back, you should have just asked.”

“Tess, I didn’t take a sweatshirt.”

“The notes, Scott!” She says, exasperated, throwing her hands in the air. “Who else would leave me a note on my fridge that said _I hope you have the most amazing day_ on the morning before I renegotiated my contract with Adidas? An event that you _knew_ was happening, by the way.”

Scott laughs, probably at her frustration, and shakes his head. “Really, Tessa, I don’t know what you’re implying. I texted you that morning, didn’t I?”

She holds up her phone despite nothing being shown on the screen. “You texted me the _exact_ same message on that note.”

“Uh, I’m pretty sure I said ‘I hope you have an _awesome_ day’, not an _amazing_ day,” he teases, cheeky grin playing at his mouth.

Tessa groans and rolls her eyes. She can’t believe he is being so secretive about this. If he snuck into her house to do cute things, she really doesn’t care. But Scott is sitting in front of her, acting all coy and giving her nothing to work with. “Whatever, Scott,” she says with a bit of a bite. “You absolute weirdo.”

“Yeah, whatever, T,” he replies passively, eyes avoiding hers in favour of searching the menu that she is pretty sure they both know off by heart. “Hey, if I get the blackberry filled poptarts will you get the chocolate peanut butter cheesecake and we can split them?”

And because she can’t stay mad at Scott for very long, she sighs and says, “Of course.”

“Sorry, guys, can I get you anything?” When Tessa looks up, she sees a tall man with dark hair wearing an apron. He has a set jaw, probably irritated from how long they’re taking to get something at this café.

“Oh, yes, sorry for the wait!” She laughs, hoping it’ll put him in a better mood if she’s friendly. She lists off the order to him in her sweetest voice, not wanting to get on the bad side of anyone that works here since she is a regular. She can practically hear Scott’s mocking voice in her head, making fun of her for being a people pleaser.

At the end of her order, she directs her best smile to the man and he hesitantly smiles back. “You have a great smile,” he says, after writing down their order. He casts a final glance at Scott before he walks away, and she can see him hand the order over to the person behind the counter.

She hears Scott scoffing in front of her. “ _Every single time_ ,” he mutters.

“What?” She says, confused.

“Everyone that you interact with flirts with you,” he explains. “If it wasn’t so annoying, it would be hilarious.”

She rolls her eyes for what feels like the fiftieth time today, not up for having this conversation right now. “Let me live, Scott.”

She’s still irritated by the entire house situation. She knows that what he is doing is harmless, really. It’s just little gifts and inspirational post-it notes. She can always snag the _Skate Shop_ hoodie back the next time she visits his house. In fact, she could probably go to the shop tomorrow morning and ask Cara for another, so it really doesn’t matter. She just wishes that she knew what he was up to.

 

*

 

She doesn’t entirely understand what Scott is up to, but she’s beginning to just accept that this is her life now. Receiving weird, sweet notes and the occasional gift isn’t exactly a burden.

One day, she wakes up groggily in the middle of the night, and she can hear an odd shuffling noise downstairs. She’s not sure what it could possibly be. She has no pets, and she is pretty sure she closed the windows. But because she’s Tessa and she refuses to get out of bed in the middle of the night, she falls back asleep, forgetting about it when the morning comes.

What really gets her, though, is when she comes home one day and realizes that in her hallway, where she keeps her favourite photo of her and Scott hung up, the wall is empty.

It’s the only snapshot she has of her and Scott throughout the whole house. It’s a quiet photo; understated, and very much them. No one in the world has seen it other than those who come into her home. She even made sure to take it down when _House & Home _ came in to do a photoshoot with her. Marie had snapped it for her in the middle of their comeback, just around the time they were doing choreography training for _Moulin Rouge._ They’re in the middle of their favourite restaurant in Montreal, _Foxy’s,_ sitting side by side. Tessa is laughing at the camera with her head in her hand, elbow resting on the table in front of them. Scott is looking at her, face scrunched up and half buried in her hair. She doesn’t even remember what he said that made her laugh that hard, but she doesn’t doubt that it was something ridiculous and not even remotely funny. She only hates herself a little for how hard Scott can make her laugh with every little thing she says.

It’s her favourite photo of them, hence why she hung it up in her hallway to pass everyday. But now it, and the frame, are gone. And she has no idea where it went.

She calls him.

“Scott Moir,” she says in greeting. “Do you perhaps have any idea where that photo of us went?”

“Huh, T?” He replies absent mindedly, as if he’s busy doing something else.

“The _photo_ in my hallway,” she replies. “Ugh, I don’t understand. Where could it have possibly gone? This is getting bizarre. You must have taken it, right? Right?”

Scott seems to sense the desperation in her voice. “Tessa, I didn’t,” he says, and she’s pretty sure he sounds concerned.

Then, she remembers. “Have you been planning something in my house?” She asks, getting more confused by the second. “I just remembered that I woke up one day and heard these weird noises coming from downstairs. And then when I was down in the morning there was a pastry waiting for me for breakfast.”

She hears him sigh through the phone, and then: “Are you feeling okay? You don’t sound well. Do you want me to come over tonight, maybe?”

Either her mind is playing tricks on her, or Scott is. And she’s going to figure out which one it is tonight if it kills her. So she agrees.

 

*

 

When Scott arrives at her house that night, he comes bearing a long hug that she melts into immediately, as well as cake.

“ _More_ gifts?” She asks when she pulls away from him, peering closely. “Thank you, though, this is my favourite.”

He rolls his eyes in response, shrugging off his coat. “Not this again,” she can hear him mutter under his breath, but he doesn’t say anything else. “I just figured you needed it, and I was at the store when you called. You sounded off on the phone earlier.”

She walks toward her kitchen to place the cake on the counter. “Things have just been confusing me lately, that’s all,” she says. Then, turns to watch him closely, paying attention as he stops in front of her. “Are you _sure_ you haven’t been up to anything?”

“Tessa, I swear I haven’t.” And, truthfully, his face is the picture of pure innocence right now. That, more than anything, frustrates the hell out of her. She’s known him for twenty one years, and yet this is the one time she hasn’t been able to get a proper reading of the look on his face. She can’t tell if it’s because she just doesn’t _want_ to believe him, because all the evidence points in that direction, or if her intuition knows that he’s hiding something from her.

She sighs wearily. “Okay.” She’s clearly not getting anything out of him, if it is her.

“Let’s just… stop thinking so hard, okay, T?” He says soothingly, coming closer to rub at her shoulders. “You’ve been working a lot lately. I think you just need some rest, and then you’ll feel better in the morning.”

“Yeah, maybe,” she says. She’s not exactly convinced it’s her lack of sleep that’s getting to her, but she is quite tired. “But I can’t sleep now, you just came over.”

“Tessa, I came over to help you relax,” he says. “I can crash here tonight, watch some TV. Maybe it’ll put your mind at ease. You know, because of those _weird noises_ you’ve been hearing.” He puts air quotes around the weird noises, as if he doesn’t believe her. And, honestly, Tessa doesn’t know if she even believes _herself_ anymore. Maybe she really did just make it up in her head.

God, this entire situation is really tiring her out. Suddenly, she wants nothing more than to go to bed. “Okay, okay, I’ll sleep,” she replies. She can hear the exhaustion seeping into her tone, and knows it’s probably the right thing to do.

“Good,” Scott says, smiling at her agreeability.

He puts her cake in the fridge for her, telling her to go upstairs and get ready for bed. Before she leaves the room, she turns to see him eyeing the flowers that she placed in a vase of water a few days ago. “Pretty,” he mumbles, toying with the edges of a hydrangea.

She turns, quickly, and walks up her stairs. She really needs to go to bed.

 

*

 

She sleeps peacefully with the knowledge that Scott is in her house. She takes comfort in the fact of it, that it’s something she knows is certain and true.

When she wakes up a few hours later, it’s to the ringing sound of a gunshot.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We didn’t want to take away from the story and warn before the plot twist, but just in case anyone is worried about triggers, additional warnings for this chapter can be found in the endnotes.

**PART III**

 

He’s deliberating between cheeses when she calls.

“Scott Moir,” she says before he can get a word in. “Do you perhaps have any idea where that photo of us went?”

“Huh, T?” He replies picking up a block of brie and reading the label.

“The _photo_ in my hallway,” she replies, with her tone getting his attention—she sounds genuinely distressed. “Ugh, I don’t understand. Where could it have possibly gone? This is getting bizarre. You must have taken it, right? Right?”

He has no idea what she’s talking about. It’s not the first time in the past few weeks that they’ve had conversations where he feels totally lost, like she’s somehow switched off of the frequency they usually share.

“Tessa, I didn’t,” he says. He’s beginning to get seriously concerned for her wellbeing.

“Have you been planning something in my house?” The sound of her voice is getting more erratic by the second. “I just remembered that I woke up one day and heard these weird noises coming from downstairs. And then when I was there in the morning there was a pastry waiting for me for breakfast.”

He takes a moment to take in what she’s saying. It sounds kind of delusional, he’s not going to lie. Maybe she needs to sleep, he thinks. She’s been working so hard lately, with Adidas busting her chops about a new line they want her to promote. “Are you feeling okay? You don’t sound well. Do you want me to come over tonight, maybe?”

He hears some silence in reply, but he listens carefully for her answer. A sigh, and then; “Yeah, okay, maybe it will help. I don’t know.”

She did sleep better when he was around; he knows this from their sleep analysis reports from B2ten and watching her when she falls asleep on his couch sometimes. Maybe him being near her will put her at rest for once.

Before he leaves the store, he grabs her favourite cake. She seems like she needs a pick-me-up.

 

*

 

When she opens the door, after he knocks three times in quick succession (their signature tell that it is each other dating back to early competition days in lonely hotels), her eyes are wide. There are bags under them that he didn’t notice before. Her hair is pulled up into a loose bun and a sweatshirt, one he is pretty sure is his own and swallows her figure. She looks about as exhausted as she sounded on the phone.

“Hey,” he greets her and immediately pulls her in for a hug. His arms wrap around her tightly and hold her close. They feel each other out, as they usually do while embracing. Their hearts match a steady beat, their breaths find an even dynamic. Give and take. In and out. He feels her melt into his arms. “Better?”

She pulls back slowly and looks him up and down, her arms still loosely wrapped around him. “A little,” she mumbles. “Come in.”

When they get into her home, he holds the cake out to her.

“ _More_ gifts?” She asks, narrowing her eyes at him. He almost scoffs at the implication. “Thank you, though, this is my favourite.”

He rolls his eyes. “Not this again,” he mutters under his breath. It takes a lot of strength to reel in any other comments he has about this whole ordeal. In the end, he drops it—she never communicates well when she’s overtired. He shrugs. “I just figured you needed it, and I was at the store when you called. You sounded off on the phone earlier.”

She walks toward her kitchen to place the cake on the counter and he follows closely behind. “Things have just been confusing me lately, that’s all,” she says. He stops in front of her when she turns around to look at him. “Are you _sure_ you haven’t been up to anything?”

He has to hold back any other comments, knowing it isn’t her fault. She’s clearly tired. “Tessa, I swear I haven’t.” It’s a little frustrating that she believes he’d lie to her like that. But he understands her exhaustion and knows how she can get when she overworks herself. A tired Tessa is not a Tessa who thinks very clearly.

She lets out a long sigh. “Okay.”

“Let’s just… stop thinking so hard, okay, T?” He says soothingly, coming closer to rub at her shoulders. “You’ve been working a lot lately. I think you just need some rest, and then you’ll feel better in the morning.”

“Yeah, maybe,” she says. There is still some hesitation in her voice, and Scott knows he might have to push her a little on this. “But I can’t sleep now, you just came over.”

“Tessa, I came over to help you relax,” he says, attempting to persuade her. “I can crash here tonight, watch some TV. Maybe it’ll put your mind at ease. You know, because of those _weird noises_ you’ve been hearing.” He raises his hands and uses his fingers to put air quotes around the weird noises. Even though he is here to help her out, there is still some speculation he holds as to what is actually going on. There isn’t any logical explanation as to why she is witnessing the things she says she is.

“Okay, okay, I’ll sleep,” she finally replies, her tone once again hinting at her exhaustion.

“Good,” Scott says with a smile. That was easier than he thought it would be.

He puts her cake in the fridge for her, telling her to go upstairs and get ready for bed. While he does so, his eyes catch sight of the bouquet on her counter. The arrangement is nice, but it’s not something he would expect Tessa to pick out herself. “Pretty,” he remarks, fingers brushing against the petals of the flower.

Scott looks back up, and Tessa is already gone up the stairs and (hopefully) to bed. He sighs and makes his way over to the couch, picking up the remote and flicking the TV on. Channel surfing is what he does for the next hour, thumbing through different sports games and reruns that only surface during the late hours of the night. His head is elsewhere, focused on Tessa. He truly hopes she can find the rest she needs with him in the house.

While his mind floats, his eyes flutter, and soon sleep finds him.

 

*

 

When Scott wakes up, it’s to a peculiar noise.

The sounds of shuffling near the couch is what causes him to stir. The television is still on in the background, some infomercial droning on about a mop head that swears it can _clean up the entire mess!_

“Tessa,” he groans, with his eyes still closed, flipping around on the couch so his back is against the cushions. “What is it now?”

There is a pause and some more shuffling, followed by a deep gasp. _That isn’t Tessa_ , he thinks _._ He’d know the sound of her from anywhere. His eyes fly open and he suddenly realizes: there is a man standing in front of him, dressed in a neatly pressed suit and holding a bouquet of flowers. Scott scrambles to sit up on the couch. He didn’t realize she’d be having any visitors. As he does, the man looks him up and down with a scowl on his face.

“What are _you_ doing here?” The man practically growls. All the hairs on Scott’s neck stand up straight.

“Who—who are you?” Scott stutters out. He stands up from the couch and puts some distance between him and the man. _Oh, God_ , he thinks. _Tessa was right_.

He tries to think quickly, making sure to stand in the hallway that leads to Tessa’s room, blocking the path. The man glares at him, sharp jawline clenched, chest rising and falling quickly. “Who are you?” Scott asks again, sharper this time.

The man narrows his eyes at him, and Scott subconsciously shivers despite the house being warm as it always is. “Who _am I?_ You should _know_ who I am.”

Scott shakes his head. “I don’t know who you are, or what you are doing here, but you need to get out of this house before I call the police.”

The guy lets out a loud laugh, throwing his head back. Then his eyes widen and his hand slaps over his mouth. Scott doesn’t know what to do other than watch him closely, confused and scared shitless. “Oops,” the man whispers with a disturbing grin. “We can’t wake up Tessa.”

His heart stops at the mention of her name. This man knows who Tessa is—he’s here with a purpose. Scott’s mind immediately goes into overdrive. He needs to protect her. He refuses let anything bad happen to her.

Scott is about to tell him to leave once again, but the man reaches into the back of his pants, pulling out a— _no._

“Hey, hey, hey,” Scott rushes out, holding his hands up in surrender. He tries to make his voice more soothing, unequipped to handle this kind of situation. “Stop, _please_.”

“Move out of my way,” the guy seethes, eyes darting quickly between Scott’s face and the hallway behind him. This man wants to get to Tessa, and there is no fucking way Scott is going to let that happen.

“I won’t let you go down there,” Scott says, standing his ground.

In the long run, that is what leads to his downfall.

The man clicks the safety off.

But then again, he always knew Tessa would be the death of him. 

**_BANG_ **

The first shot rings through the air, and Scott hears glass crack behind him. He has enough time to look over his shoulder and see one of the picture frames in her hallway blossom with cracks. The bullet is wedged between the glass and the pristine white wall.

When he turns back to the man, the second shot fires.

 **_BANG_ ** 

The impact hits him so quickly that he doesn’t even see the bullet flying. He drops to the ground immediately, crumbling into a heap. It suddenly feels as if his left shoulder is on fire. He gasps, feels the air knocked out of him, and it hurts. Everything hurts. A burning sensation begins in his collarbone, spreading quickly, licking at every nerve ending on his left side. He brings a hand up to touch at his shoulder and cries out once his fingers touch the wound.

When he pulls his hand away, blood runs from his fingertips, down his palm and his wrist. He chokes at the sight.

Everything around him goes fuzzy. The only thing he can focus on is the blood oozing from his shoulder. The sight of it makes the logical part of his brain shut off. When they first started therapy with JF, Scott remembers how he spoke about trauma. It was just after NHK, when Cakey had passed.

“When something traumatic happens in our lives, the stress might begin to overwhelm you,” JF had said. “The part of your brain that processes that kind of trauma—when the stress gets to be too much, it shuts off. It’s your body's attempt to compartmentalize your emotions. It’s almost as if you go into survival mode. You may not act completely like yourself, but that is a very natural thing.”

Scott had somewhat understood what he meant, back then. It’s true that when his friend had passed, he did not act like himself. But most of what he felt back then was numbness, and an inability to process his emotions. He pushed through one of the toughest moments of his life, attempted to compartmentalize by focusing on his sport. And at the time, it had worked. (Until the feelings caught up to him eventually, and he was forced to cope with his grief in a more productive manner.)

This time, Scott doesn’t know how to deal. His brain has shut down, JF was right about that. This is another level of trauma, something that JF did not entirely prepare him for. And how could he? No one prepares their patients for the potential of being shot.

The one thing that snaps him out of it, that comes to him like a fist knocking at his skull, is her voice. It sounds like an echo, starting off quiet and distant, and then pulling him out of the tunnel vision.

“Scott,” she yells, and he listens to the way her voice cracks near the end. A sob is ripped from her mouth and for some reason, she is the one who sounds like they’ve been shot, not him. She comes toward him, selflessly attempting to help him despite the fact that she should have crawled out a window as soon as she heard the sound of gunshots. Her hands hover over his body as she sinks to the ground, kneeling beside him. The only thing that it seems he can do is search for her eyes. Even in the darkness, the green of her irises pierce his soul.

He tries to say her name, tries to speak, but the pain in his chest is too much. It feels like someone is gripping onto his lungs and won’t let go. “Tess,” he wheezes out, coughing when the words fall from his lips.

“Oh, my God.” Tessa chokes on her words and when she pulls her hands away from his body they are covered in blood. His own blood. “Scott.”

In the distance, he hears something that sounds like Tessa’s mother coming from another place in the room. Kate’s voice can be heard through the silence of the moment, saying: _Tessa? Tessa?_

It takes him a moment, but then he realizes. When he looks to the side, Tessa’s phone is laying on the ground face up, a picture of Kate lit up on the screen. _1:37_ at the the top, counting up slowly for every second that ticks by.

Scott isn’t the only one that notices her discarded device.

The man storms over to the phone and picks it up, inspecting the screen. “Who did you call?!” He shouts. Tessa curls closer to him in fear, and Scott just barely manages to lift his hand to squeeze her knee. “Fuck,” the man spits and walks further down the hallway, placing the phone against his ear and mumbling, too quiet for Scott to make out any words.

“I’m so sorry, Tessa,” Scott rushes out weakly, knowing they don’t have much time. “I should have believed you when you said something was wrong, I should have—”

“Shh,” Tessa soothes, tears in her eyes. “Stop apologizing. Are you okay? Fuck, there’s so much blood. We need something to stop it.” Whether she is talking about the blood, the man, or the situation as a whole, he isn’t sure.

Her voice is getting more frantic as she speaks, but Scott knows she needs to calm down. He can feel himself getting weaker as the seconds pass. “Please, T,” Scott begs, “I need you to be strong for me, okay?” This only makes her cry harder. Scott doesn’t know what to do, until—“Hey, Tessa,” he tries, making his voice soft and quiet. “I love you.”

“ _No_ , no,” Tessa replies adamantly, still weeping into his uninjured shoulder. “Stop, Scott, stop acting like you’re going to die. You _can’t_ die on me, you’re not allowed to. Fuck, you can’t do this.”

“I’m right here,” he reassures, holding his hand out which she easily finds, just as she always does. How long he will be able to keep that promise, he isn’t sure. Everything around him is slowly fading. The pain in his side is awful, unlike anything he has ever experienced before, but that too is declining as the seconds pass.

She sniffles as tears continue to fall down her cheeks. “Scott, please don’t leave me.”

With an empty promise, he says, “Never.”

When a tear drops from her chin and lands on his shoulder, he whimpers, the shooting pain of the bullet wound piercing into his skin, but it almost hurts more to see how broken Tessa looks in this moment.

Suddenly, there’s a booming voice. The man seems to have realized they’ve been talking.

“Get away from him,” the man says angrily. “You should just leave him here to die, Tessa. He doesn’t deserve you—he doesn’t love you like I do!” He reaches down in a moment of fury, and pulls Tessa from her spot on the ground next to Scott, beginning to shake her. “Come on, can’t you see how much we’re meant to be together?”

“Stop!” Scott tries, but sputters on a bout of coughs instead. He focuses his strength, attempting to put every ounce of his remaining power into moving his body. He needs to help her. But the pain is too much. The fire spreads past his shoulder and down his side, through his chest, into every nerve ending. The man shakes her again and Scott puts more effort into properly moving his limbs at this moment than he ever did in his entire twenty year competitive career. “Please,” he pleads, weaker. “Don’t hurt her.”

The man must hear what he is saying, because he finally stops shaking her. The grip on her wrist loosens, but doesn’t entirely drop. Scott watches as the guy’s hand floats up to her face, brushing away a few strands of hair.

“I would never hurt her,” the man says softly. Scott shivers. For some reason, the gentle action chills him even more than the aggressive ones. “You know that, don’t you Tessa?”

The man, hands shaking, then attempts to do something worse than shake her. He wraps his arms around her, in an uncomfortable imitation of a unreciprocated hug. “I love you, Tessa, don’t you know that?”

Scott watches with horror, wanting more than anything to throw up.

She whimpers, body tight and fear in her eyes. “Please, let me go.”

The man’s face falls, frown taking over, and he unwraps himself from around her. Scott watches the scene unfold, not knowing if her rejecting the man was the right thing to do. He almost wants Tessa to give him whatever he wants, to pretend like this is normal, as long as he doesn’t hurt her. “Why?” the man asks her, his voice getting incredibly bitter. “So you can go to _him_?”

Tessa’s eyes frantically flick between Scott and the man’s face. “He needs my help,” she begs, probably realizing that Scott is losing blood much too quickly. “Please, let me help him. I just need some towels so he stops bleeding so much.”

“No!” The man yells, and slaps the wall beside them hard enough to rattle the picture frames hung there. Both Scott and Tessa flinch at the sound it makes. “I’m the one who loves you! Look, I even made this for you.”

The man scrambles toward the other side of the room, picking up a discarded photo frame. When he moves back toward Tessa, Scott realizes—it’s the same frame with the picture she keeps of the two of them in her hallway. The one that went missing.

He hands it to her, and when Scott takes a better look at it, he’s not sure how to react. He doesn’t know if he wants to puke, cry, or laugh, because—in the frame, the picture of the two of them has been replaced with a shoddily photoshopped picture of Tessa and the man. Scott knows the picture well, has passed by it many times. Instead of himself leaning into Tessa, it’s the man, with his lips puckered against her cheek, in a disturbing position mimicking a kiss.

Tessa looks at it, unsure of how to react to the deranged photoshop, and then straightens her spine. Then, Scott can quite literally see her go into action-mode. She looks the man directly in his eyes and says: “If you love me so much, then you know I won’t be able to live if he’s dead.”

The man looks between Scott, on the floor, and Tessa’s tear stained cheeks. She’s managed to pull herself out of the man’s grip and is backing up towards Scott.

“Please,” Tessa begs, staring the man down. “I’ll never love you if he’s dead.”

The man looks back at Scott, disgust written all over his features, and waves the gun in defeat. Tessa and Scott both flinch, but it doesn’t go off again.

“Fine,” the man says. “But then we’ll be together.”

“Of course,” Tessa replies, her voice cracking as she turns again to look at Scott.

With his eyes, he desperately tries to tell her to run, to escape out the bathroom window and save herself. He tells her he’s already dying anyways, and that her best chance is to go for help. They’ve always been able to understand each other without words, he knows she hears what he doesn’t speak. Just like he knows she won’t listen. She won’t leave him behind.

While Tessa hurries off to the bathroom for towels the man paces her living room. He’s muttering to himself, too quiet and manic for Scott to make out, with his head in his hands, the barrel of the gun pressed into his temple.

Scott tries to think of something to say, anything at all to ensure that Tessa will make it out of this unharmed. But he’s losing the breath from his lungs a little more with every gasp, shudders wrack through his body, uncontrollable and harsh. His hands have gone numb from cold and the man is a raving lunatic.

When Tessa returns, it’s with around three pristine, white towels in her hands. She scrambles to the ground, folding one of them quickly and pressing it into his shoulder. He gasps when she does so. “Here,” she whispers, using her other hand to cup his cheek. “This will help stop the bleeding.”

“Thanks,” he mutters weakly, and takes in the sight of her face. She’s still crying, but silently now, tears flowing down her face. “Don’t cry, T.”

“I can’t stop,” she replies, shuddering. Blood soaks through the cloth beneath her hands. “I don’t know what I’ll do if anything happens to you.”

“You’ll be okay,” Scott says, and now he can feel the tears escaping his eyes, too. He has to gasp in air to speak, and even then it hardly feels like he’s breathing. He is coming to the conclusion that, indeed, he is about to die. “You’re the strongest person I know.”

She shakes her head, using her thumb to wipe his cheeks. “I couldn’t live without you, Scott,” she says quietly. “I won’t live without you. I’m in love with you.”

Scott swears that he can feel his heart skip a beat. “Tess,” he whispers, not knowing what to say. He knows that he said it earlier, too, but hearing it from her now—it’s everything, more than what he could have ever imagined this moment to be.

She presses a kiss against his forehead, face wet with tears. “You don’t need to say anything. I just needed you to know.”

Scott scans her face, and then half-jokes, still teary-eyed: “You’re only saying this because I’m about to die.”

“ _No_ ,” Tessa replies, and he can hear the sob in her voice, his vision tunnelling in on her and only her. “You’re not about to die, Scott Moir. Do you hear me? You are _not_ dying.”

He feels her grab his hand and squeeze tighter than she ever has before. In his last breaths, he knows he needs to put her at ease. “You’re going to be okay, T. I know you will. You’re going to find someone who loves you more than I ever could. You’re going to have beautiful babies with green eyes and noses they don’t have to worry about.” She laughs hollowly despite the situation, and he coughs out one of his own. “You’re going to rule the world, with or without me, Tess.”

“Not without you,” she refuses with a shake of her head. “You know I’ve never been good without you. Not in the past, not in the present, and certainly not in the future. Which is _ours_ , Scott. Together.” Her hand brushes across his forehead and down his cheek, thumb stopping to swipe across his temple that is beading with sweat. “I’ve loved you from day I met you; since I was seven years old.”

He smiles, body sagging in weakness. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted to hear, Tess,” he replies dazedly, lungs rattling as his weight goes slack against her. He can feel his heart pounding in his ears, and the sirens in the background that seem unnaturally loud. He wonders if anyone is coming to get them. He fights to keep her in his vision, blinking hard against the bursts of light and shadows invading his eyes, as his hearing fades out.

“Scott!”

He sees her mouth move, but he can no longer hear her. His whole body goes numb, like he doesn’t even have a form anymore, and he tries desperately for one last second to look at her, then everything crushes in—black.

 

*

 

He wakes up to the steady beeping of the heart rate monitor. His eyes are still closed, but he can hear the faint sound of Tessa speaking quietly on the phone. His limbs feel so heavy, weighed down with medication, and he tries to open his eyes to see her. He needs to see that she’s actually alright.

“Tess?” His throat is raw, and he can hear his voice crack. The fluorescent lights overhead spike pain through his skull as he blinks away the sleep, but he can’t feel anything in his chest other the dull ache that permeates his whole body.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” Tessa says, and she squeezes his fingers. Her eyes are red rimmed like she’s been crying, and she’s perched on a chair that is tucked right against his hospital bed.

He squeezes her hand back, looking at her through bleary eyes. “You’re okay,” his whispers, relief coursing through his body. That’s all that matters to him.

“Yeah, Scott, _you’re_ the one who got shot.” She wipes a tear from her cheek with a sound that is close to a laugh, but she sounds more devastated than anything.

“I was worried.” He struggles to take a breath. “That was…” He doesn’t have the words. “What happened? After I passed out?”

“My mom called the cops, and they arrived right after you lost consciousness to arrest the guy.”

It still doesn’t entirely make sense to him. “Who was he?”

She sighs. He can tell she’s beating herself up for this—for putting him in this position—when in reality, none of it is her fault. “One of the baristas at _Rhino Lounge_. The police said they think he must have been following me for the last couple of months. Apparently he’s done this before.”

“Holy shit. Tess, I’m so sorry. I should have seen—I should have believed you—”

“No, Scott.” She cuts him off. “It’s not your fault.”

Scott isn’t entirely sure how they’re going to move past this. They’ve been through a lot together—surgeries, loss, and nearly losing each other on more than one occasion—but this is beyond all of that. Everything inside (and outside) of him hurts.

He wants to pick up her hand, lay a kiss on her knuckles, but his limbs are too heavy for that right now. He wants to soothe her and make her understand that he is here, alive, with her. “I’ll never doubt you again,” he promises.

Her lips twitch, like she wants to smile but the situation doesn’t entirely account for it. “Do you… remember? I know things happened so fast, but…”

When she trails off, he finds his voice. “I remember,” he says. “Everything.”

She inhales, and he can tell she’s overwhelmed by that word. _Everything_. “Scott,” she says, “I—”

“Listen,” he says, cutting her off. He needs to get this out before anything else goes wrong. “You don’t need to explain anything about how you feel, T. You don’t need to reciprocate… I know we’ve been through a lot in the past 24 hours, and that me on the verge of death was probably the only reason you told me you loved me. Sometimes feelings can get misplaced in the moment, I know this. But I want you to know that you’ll _never_ have to feel scared like that again. From now on, I’ll always be with you. I promise that to you. I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure that you know you’re safe, regardless of if you feel the same way. I meant every single thing I said. And it doesn’t have to change anything between us. I’m not asking for anything more from you, I just need you to kn—”

“Scott,” she says, cutting his long-winded speech short. “I meant it when I said I’m in love with you.”

He stares at her, dumbfounded. He didn’t even get to that part of his speech yet.

God, he wants to kiss her. But when he attempts to move toward her, he can barely can. He slumps back against the bed and whispers, looking at her in all her glory: “T. Kiss me.”

He watches as she smiles, rising from where she is sitting in her chair to hover above him. He takes in the look on her face as she brushes the hair from his eyes, stroking his cheek softly, reverently, and then leans down as he leans up, attempting to meet her in the middle. And when their lips finally meet—finally, after all that they’ve been through, after all the years they’ve spent not touching—he melts. She kisses in the same way that she looks at him, like she’s never wanted anything more in her life. He almost can’t believe that they’ve spent all this time _not_ kissing.

When she finally pulls away from him, it’s too soon. (But then again, anything would have been too soon for him. They have twenty years to make up for, after all.) He whines as she goes, and she giggles into his temple. “You need to rest, Scott,” she whispers, kissing his cheekbone. “Please. For me.”

Her face is still close to his, so close, so he nuzzles his nose against hers. “Okay, Tess. For you.”

When sleep finally comes, it’s with Tessa’s hand in his—warm palm against his own, fingers intertwined, and never letting go.

 

 

 **FIN**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warnings: gun violence and graphic depictions of blood/wounds.

**Author's Note:**

> bang_bang_nicki_minaj_ariana_grande_jessie_j.mp3
> 
> This idea, unbelievably, began yesterday while challenging each other to write outside of our usual boxes. It was so fun getting the chance to work with each other, and see how each of our creative processes can come together to write… whatever this is. A special s/o to The Writers’ Guild, which continues to be a supportive outlet where creativity can be not only encouraged, but also collaborated with! We hope all of you readers enjoyed. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are always much appreciated! :)
> 
> You can yell at us on Tumblr at the following:
> 
>   * [falsettodrop](http://falsettodrop.tumblr.com)
>   * [jlhd](http://janizms.tumblr.com)
>   * [sinkingsidewalks](http://sinkingsidewalks.tumblr.com)
> 



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